


brandy/bad ideas

by Anonymous



Series: not that kind of arrangement [2]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Awkwardness, Coming In Pants, Cunnilingus, Do Not Archive, Drinking & Talking, Explicit Sexual Content, Feelings Realization, M/M, Porn with a side of Plot, Praise Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Trans Male Character, can't believe thats a tag, ding dong guess who's back on this bullshit, everyone ese is asleep and they're out int the living room a few walls away, i mean kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-01-13 15:20:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18471628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Hamid can’t help but smile, can’t help but stare. And maybe he’s still on an adrenaline high, or maybe he’s drunker than he thought, or maybe he’s just stupid, but the only thing in his head is a chorus ofkiss him kiss him kiss him.





	brandy/bad ideas

“—but, I suppose, that _is_ the cost of doing business with a devil,” Hamid finishes, and Zolf laughs. (He flattens a palm over his mouth quickly, though; everyone else is sleeping a few thin walls away. They’ve had to keep their conversation quiet, so as not to wake them.) And maybe it’s sad, the warmth that fills Hamid’s chest at that laugh. He’s been seeing Zolf in a different light, lately, and maybe that has something to do with the night in Hamid’s room. Probably. Almost definitely. 

(They’ve just got back from Other London, away from the grime and dust and bad inns serving worse alcohol downstairs. Away from the bed that— no, _no,_ Hamid’s not thinking about that.)

Hamid can’t help but smile, can’t help but stare. And maybe he’s still on an adrenaline high, or maybe he’s drunker than he thought, or maybe he’s just stupid, but the only thing in his head is a chorus of _kiss him kiss him kiss him,_ and Hamid focuses on something else. The glass in his hand. That works. And he’s still got that stupid smile on his face, but he doesn’t particularly care to get rid of it. Zolf’s silent, though, and Hamid doesn’t look at him. His brandy is far more interesting. “Hamid?” Hamid puts his glass down and turns. Zolf’s thumb skirts along his cheek, and Hamid freezes. “Sorry, you had something. It’s been bothering me all night.”

Hamid flounders. English is failing him, but he’s reasonably sure Arabic won’t do him any favours. “Oh,” he manages after far too much time has passed, “thank you.” Zolf smiles at him. His hand doesn’t move. He looks like he’s waiting for Hamid to say something but the only things Hamid can think are _his hand is cold_ and _I could kiss him_ and _I’ve had something on my face all night and I didn’t even notice._ And it’s beginning to look like maybe Hamid's drunker than he thought, but he's nowhere near drunk enough to think those are proper conversation threads. 

Zolf's hand doesn't move. Hamid sways closer, put his hand over Zolf’s on impulse. (Zolf doesn’t tense, exactly, but Hamid can feel him freezing.) _This is a bad idea,_ Hamid thinks as he tangles their fingers. (Zolf doesn’t move at all, his eyes locked on Hamid’s.) _This is a bad idea,_ Hamid thinks as he kisses Zolf's palm. (Zolf doesn’t look away; something in his eyes shifts from _watching_ to _wanting.) This is a bad idea,_ Hamid thinks as he leans in.

(And look, Hamid can hold his liquor, but the hold the liquor has on him is far, _far_ stronger.)

(Hamid used to play with fire when he was younger. Lighting candles and watching them dance on their wicks. Lighting his fingers up and not knowing it was supposed to hurt. Hamid knows what fire feels like, on his skin and in his blood. This? Now? What he feels when Zolf tangles his hand in Hamid’s hair and pulls him in? This isn’t anything like fire. This is _electric._ This steals his breath and fills his lungs up with _lightning.)_

Zolf has a hand on Hamid’s back and the other in Hamid’s hair, both pulling so hard Hamid nearly topples over. Hamid figures that it’s easier to meet him halfway, so instead of trying to pull Zolf down on top of him, Hamid goes. He kisses back and settles himself on Zolf’s lap. 

It’s embarrassing, how much he wants this. Or it’s pathetic, the way he kisses back, breath stuttering in his throat. It’s pitiful, maybe, how all reason flies him as soon as the ice of Zolf’s hand makes it through to his skin. Hamid manages to pull Zolf’s shirt off in one smooth motion, this time. This time, there’s no armour, but that’s not going to dim Hamid’s quiet satisfaction at his progress. 

(It was a one-time thing, a bad decision aided by alcohol and adrenaline. There’s still adrenaline, though, Hamid can’t deny that he feels jumpy and keyed up. There’s still alcohol, though, Hamid can’t deny the half-empty bottle of brandy or the two empty glasses on his coffee table. So, maybe, it’ll just be a two-time thing. That’s fine. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than that.)

Zolf moves down, starts sucking marks into Hamid’s neck, and Hamid gasps. Zolf whispers, “Quiet,” and Hamid bites his lip. Quiet. He can be quiet. Zolf starts unbuttoning his shirt, (and thank gods that Hamid took off his other layers when they got back) and Hamid rolls his hips impatiently. Zolf laughs, keeps kissing bruises into Hamid’s neck, slows down even further in his attempts to rid Hamid of his shirt. Zolf kisses him again, hums, “Give me a second, buttons are hard,” and Hamid is beginning to reconsider this.

He drags Zolf into a hard kiss, tongue pressing against teeth as Hamid quickly undoes the rest of his buttons. Because they’re easy to undo, and Zolf is just a tease. Hamid bites the other man’s lip, and Zolf makes a surprised/pleased noise. _“Quiet,”_ Hamid mimics back to him, and Zolf glares. 

It’s embarrassing, the way Hamid gasps when Zolf pushes him back into the couch. Or it’s pathetic, how quickly Hamid’s pulse picks up when Zolf starts kissing down Hamid’s chest. It’s pitiful, maybe, the way Hamid moans when Zolf runs a thumb over Hamid’s nipple. He cuts himself off, flattens a palm over his mouth, and he pretends he doesn’t see the self-satisfied grin Zolf has on. Hamid whispers, “Shut up,” and Zolf kisses the space just above Hamid’s hip.

“Didn’t say anything,” Zolf whispers back, and one of his hands is dealing with Hamid’s fastenings. One is squeezing Hamid’s thigh. 

“You were thinking it.”

Zolf begins to slide Hamid’s trousers down. “Didn’t know you could read minds,” he remarks quietly.

Hamid is aware that it’s not polite to insult someone when they’re between your legs, but he’s _also_ not just going to let the subject drop. _He_ may still be a bit bruised, but his _pride_ is doing just fine. “You’re so—” Zolf mouths at him through his pants— _“oh.”_ Zolf draws away some, kisses Hamid’s inner thigh. Hamid winds his hands through Zolf’s hair and pulls him back. 

(Lightning shoots through him when Zolf drags the flat of his tongue across the fabric. Hamid isn’t _loud,_ not exactly, but it’s hard not to moan when Zolf tugs his pants down, and Hamid can feel Zolf’s mouth against him. It’s embarrassing, or pathetic, or maybe pitiful, how the slightest brush makes his hips jerk. Makes him bite into his hand, so he doesn’t whimper. Makes the electricity in his stomach flicker bright, brighter, brightest.)

(Hamid doesn’t say, _more, darling, give me more._ Hamid doesn’t say, _please, love._ Hamid doesn’t say, _yes, there, gods you’re perfect._ Hamid doesn’t say anything because this is a two-time thing, and whatever sort of thing this is, it doesn’t allow for a softness like that.)

(Hamid doesn’t moan, or whine, or whimper. He’ll have teeth marks in his hand by the end of the night, but only tiny noises hitch out of his throat as Zolf eats him out. Quiet. Hamid can be quiet.)

There’s hot breath against him as Zolf murmurs, “You taste good.” And look, Hamid isn’t usually like this, honestly, but right now the only thing he can think to do is buck his hips up and look at Zolf pleadingly. Zolf is wide-eyed, only the hint of green at the edges of black pupils, and he laughs softly. “Gods, look at you. You look so good like this,” and Hamid lets his head fall back onto the arm of the couch.

And look, Hamid doesn’t want to come off as desperate, but he does want to come. He whimpers, “Zolf, _please.”_ Zolf kisses his thigh again, and then a little higher up, and higher still, but not high enough. Quiet, but Hamid can’t be quiet when he begs, “Please,” and lightning judders through his bloodstream when Zolf seals his mouth over Hamid’s clit and _sucks._

Hamid doesn’t cry out, somehow, the loud moan catching in his throat and staying there. He doesn’t pant, or whine, or scream any of the obscenities that come to mind. Zolf holds Hamid’s thigh where it is (with one hand, where's his other– Hamid decides he doesn't care) and lets his tongue move, delve deeper, and Hamid squirms slightly. It’s not polite to cage someone’s head in and keep it there, but Hamid is having a hard time remembering this. He pants, “I– _fuck,_ I’m so close, you—” Zolf hums, and the vibrations nearly make Hamid come right then. He presses his hand back into his mouth.

Zolf loses his rhythm, slightly, and Hamid barely stifles a groan. Zolf squeezes Hamid’s thigh and curls his tongue. Hamid’s hips jerk up and an unintelligible garble of syllables that could be anything, really, but certainly do sound like, _“Gods, love,”_ escape his lips. He looks down, unsure if Zolf managed to decipher it, and the way Zolf is _looking_ at him. 

_(Beautiful,_ Zolf called him before. _You’re so good,_ he’d said reverentially. _Perfect,_ he’d whispered, and he’d said it with that exact look on his face.)

(And it’s embarrassing, how the memory of those compliments is what tips Hamid over the edge. It’s pathetic, how much that praise affects him. It’s pitiful, maybe, how Zolf’s soft smile makes his already weak knees dissolve.)

Hamid tries to sit up, but he’s so sensitive that he just winces and edges back some. “Sorry,” he murmurs, “do you want me to take care of you?” Zolf shakes his head. Hamid frowns. “Are you sure? I can—”

“I’m good,” Zolf says, and there’s a note of embarrassment in his voice. Hamid cocks his head, and Zolf shrugs. “I might need a new pair of pants, but, um. Yeah, I’m good.” Hamid raises his eyebrows. Zolf mutters, “Shut up,” and Hamid laughs quietly.

“I didn’t say anything,” he says, just like Zolf did earlier, and Zolf scowls. Hamid’s shirt didn’t actually come off, just got unbuttoned, so Hamid pulls a handkerchief out of his sleeve and Prestidigitates his own slick off of his clothes. He pulls his pants and trousers back up, but he’s not going to bother with the buttons. “I can clean you up, too,” he offers. Zolf shrugs again, which Hamid takes as a _‘yes but I don’t want to admit it’_ and flicks the handkerchief.

Zolf hisses, _“Why is that so cold?”_ and Hamid snickers. 

And the silence that follows isn’t _awkward,_ exactly, but Hamid doesn’t exactly know how to deal with it. “Do you want to finish the brandy?” Zolf snorts a laugh at that, but he quickly stifles it with his fist. Hamid pouts, slightly; he doesn’t particularly like being laughed at. But Zolf leans forward and pours another two glasses, and Hamid can’t help but sigh in quiet relief.

As Zolf hands him the glass, he pulls Hamid closer, winding an arm around his waist. “Hope you don’t mind,” Zolf murmurs, and Hamid thinks that he’s talking about the contact but then, “you barely even know me and I’m drinking all of your brandy.” 

(Electricity sparks across Hamid’s side and a comfortable fluorescent glow pools in his stomach alongside the drink.)

Hamid doesn’t trust himself not to overstep some tactile boundary, so he doesn’t move any closer. “It’s that or drinking alone,” Hamid answers. 

(And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Zolf staves off his loneliness for a moment. That’s all it is. Any other feelings writhing in Hamid’s chest are just misplaced lust and sociability. Hamid doesn’t have any _real_ feelings for Zolf, that’s ridiculous. Absurd. Laughable. Embarrassing. Pathetic. Pitiful.)

(It’s like Zolf said, Hamid barely even knows him. _This is a bad idea,_ Hamid realises when he doesn’t push Zolf off of him and go to bed. _This is a bad idea,_ Hamid realises when Zolf drops off against the back of the couch and Hamid doesn’t want to get up for fear of disturbing him. _This is a bad idea,_ Hamid realises when he’s halfway through with a bottle of brandy he bought on a whim and halfway smitten for a man he met by chance.)

(Oh, dear.)


End file.
